


In Want of Witherstalk

by RaeTheVampire



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 14:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16874904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeTheVampire/pseuds/RaeTheVampire
Summary: With his brother living in a fancy Hightown estate and his mother having passed away, Carver Hawke has completely immersed himself in the Templar order. But a friend in need is a friend indeed, and Carver may break some rules in order to help Merrill out with a problem she's been having.





	1. Chapter 1

Carver wasn’t a religious man by any merit. He had gone to the Chantry in Lothering along with his mother to keep up appearances, and he mainly celebrated Wintersend because of all the free food that was being handed out at the market. Nevertheless, on his few-and-far-between nights off from the Gallows, he found himself drawn to Hightown’s Chantry. Maybe it was because it was one of the few places in Kirkwall that wasn’t filled with refugees, blood mages, gangs, or sewer rats. Or maybe it was the Maker trying to tell him something, a calling to a higher good.

  
But Carver was not a religious man, and he knew deep down that the only reason he wandered into the shadow of the Chantry’s grand façade during his free time was to catch a glimpse of the Amelle estate, hoping maybe one of these times someone would come out and beg him to come home.

  
Standing in front of the solemn, chipped statue of Andraste, Carver nodded at the Chanter fumbling through “The Chant of Light” to his left and tossed a few bits into the collection plate at the base of the statue. He glanced over his shoulder, at the noble but not stand-offish townhouse that belonged to his family, but he was not seen. The house was lit by flickering candlelight and the dim sound of laughter could be heard through the stone walls. His brother was home (“Thank the Maker, it’s getting late into the evening,” a quiet part of Carver’s brain thought), but as usual, he was in his own world, completely absorbed with the pleasure and fun that Carver thought always came to him.

  
Carver’s heart ached, and as the minutes passed he began to resent his brother even more for failing to notice him on his doorstep.

  
It was then that Carver heard a noise in the quiet of the evening. It wasn’t a drunken stumble or the scurry of an animal, although it was very light. It sounded like the sound of someone who had jumped from quite a height, landing perfectly still… and then… humming?

  
It came from around the corner, near Seneschal Bran’s residence. Looking around, Carver realized that the City Guards were either busy in other areas or spending a night “investigating” the Blooming Rose again. Deciding to take it upon himself (“as usual”, he thought bitterly), with a quick huff of breath and his hand on his sword, Carver rounded the corner to investigate.  
“Hello?” He asked. “Is someone there?” Dammit, he’d been a recruit in the Templars for a good two years now, but he still failed to properly intimidate someone. He tried to make out any figures nearby, but it was simply too dark for anyone to see. Perhaps it really was an animal…

  
“Carver?” A willowy voice from the darkness questioned. “Is that you?” That accent, the way the foreign tongue stumbled over the Common words… Carver knew this voice. He instantly blushed, stark blotches of red starting to stain his cheeks, his neck.

  
“Merrill? I-I’m sorry… I – “ He began to step back, putting his hands up to show that he had no intention of harming her, but Merrill met him half-way, taking a long stride from the shadows and into his line of sight.

  
“Oh, so it really is you Carver!” The elf gushed at him, her shoulders relaxing and her eyes beaming up at him. Carver, on the other hand, tried to look anywhere but at her. “Thank the Creators, I thought it might have been a Templar – not that you’re not a Templar, I-I just thought it may have been one sent to—to--.”

  
Merrill was rambling now, twiddling her fingers nervously. Carver became even more uncomfortable, and quickly tried to put her worries to rest.  
“Well, don’t worry, it’s just me. And if it’s any condolence, I’m glad it’s you who I found just now. But either way, you never have anything to worry about from me.” Carver looked into her eyes then, quickly, giving her a small smile.

  
This time Merrill’s cheeks turned pink (well, pinker than usual). She chuckled a little. “Thank you, Carver, that means a lot to me.”

  
Carver stood, dumbfounded at the elf’s words. She seemed so genuinely thankful that Carver wouldn’t turn her in. As if she had expected otherwise.

  
“So,” Merrill said, ignoring the look on Carver’s face and rolling on the balls of her feet. “What are you doing around here so late at night?” Her eyes darted towards Cole Hawke’s estate, and she grinned like she had just solved a riddle. “Oh, I get it. You’re going to Hawke’s party, right?”

 

Party? What party? And why? It was a sodding Tuesday in the middle of Winter! And more importantly, why hadn’t Carver been invited?

  
Carver’s face reddened, but it wasn’t from Merrill’s presence this time. It was from the embarrassment of not being invited to, not even hearing of, his own brother’s party.

  
“No, I’m not going to his party,” Carver spat out. “It didn’t interest me. I’m just visiting the Chantry.” Carver clenched his hands into fists, counted to ten, tried to release the anger he felt. This whole party business didn’t matter to him anyway. He didn’t have time for stupid parties. He was part of the order now.

  
Merrill seemed to notice his disposition change, and her face clouded with confusion and concern. Then, in a wave of understanding, she sighed and reached out to comfort her friend’s younger brother. “Me too, actually. Parties don’t ever seem to interest me. Too loud.” She giggled, lightly running her lithe fingers along the Templars barren forearm. But at the touch of skin-on-skin, Merrill’s mind was instantly brought to another place. She retracted her hand quickly, earning a confused look from Carver who had seemed to be hypnotized by her touch just seconds ago.

  
As if he had just shaken off the effects of some spell, Carver suddenly remembered why he had rounded the corner and found Merrill here in the first place. “By the way Merrill, did you hear anything…” He began casually. He glanced down, only to see a covered basket in one of Merrill’s hands. It was a basket a peasant-woman might bring to market in the Spring; something a child might bring to collect flowers in the meadow. In other words, it was the exact sort of basket one would expect Merrill to have.

  
“Hey, what have you got in there?” Carver had meant it as a simple question, but the moment he asked, Merrill’s eyes widened and she became fidgety and nervous again.  
“I-I’m sorry Carver, I’d love to stay and chat, b-b-but I really need to get going!” She stammered, running in the direction of the Red-Light district. Carver could do nothing but watch as her bare feet quickly padded along the hard stone of Hightown.

  
Carver shook his head, confused, but then he thought of that sound he had heard earlier. Could that someone that had jumped from some height be Merrill? Looking to his left, he saw Seneschal Bran’s courtyard wall, which had some loose chinks of stone in it and could easily be scaled by someone with small enough feet.

  
That basket…

  
Had Merrill just robbed Seneschal Bran’s house?

  
“Dammit!” Carver said, pounding his fist against the townhouse’s outer wall. Not only had he just had a friendly conversation with a blood mage he had all but allowed said blood mage to steal from a nobleman’s house. Right in front of he, a trained Templar’s, eyes! And he had let this happen all because of his stupid infatuation with her – how his mind was foggy and his mouth didn’t work right when she was around, how his eyes wandered and his body tensed and –

  
No. There was no infatuation with her. Or perhaps there was, but there wasn’t one anymore. He had decided what he wanted to do with his life. It was his calling to become a Templar. He and only he had decided to leave his ancestral home, his brother’s stupid parties, and strange little elf women behind.

  
It was his duty to go through with becoming a Templar, and it was something for only him to understand – not Cole Hawke, not his mother, not Merrill, not anyone else.

  
And part of his duty as a Templar was to protect his brother, Merrill, and yes, even that sleaze bag Anders, from the other Templars. He was sick and tired of babysitting his brother and his gang of idiots, but it was the one thing he could do.

  
He had to find Merrill, before she found herself in real trouble for what she had just done.

  
Carver wasn’t a religious man, but as he passed by the looming statue of Andraste on his way to Lowtown, he asked the cold statue for a blessing. Maybe Andraste at the very least could take pity on him.


	2. Chapter 2

Carver tried to keep up with Merrill, but she was so lithe and the night was so dark that there was no way of keeping her in his sight. He decided that the most logical thing to do would be to pay a visit to her home in the Alienage. He wouldn’t be stepping inside her home, no! He reassured himself. He’d just come to her door step and give her a strong warning.  
As cold as the winter air was up in Hightown, it seemed to be even colder in the Alienage. Carver bristled a little, and tried to ignore the suspicious looks that he was getting from the drunken elves loitering in the alleyways. He knew a Templar in the Alienage would cause a stir, especially a Templar in the Alienage at night. He could feel eyes peering at him from the shadows and the ramshackle apartment buildings. He composed himself and tried to make his visit as quick as possible.

  
He saw Merrill’s small little home at the far end of the Alienage, past that bug decorated tree whose arms were barren this time of year. He quickly made his way to her door, ignoring the elves lingering by the shabby market stalls to the right. He could tell they were watching him, but if he were to look directly at them, he knew their eyes would dart to the ground.  
Carver knocked on Merrill’s door and realized he had his hand poised on the hilt of his broadsword. He shook his head and withdrew his hand. He didn’t need to look this paranoid, especially in front of Merrill.  
Nevertheless, as he saw the knob of the door turning, his breath caught in his throat. Was he making a complete fool of himself?  
“Somehow, I knew you were going to follow me,” she sighed, slouching in her door frame. Her eyes were downcast and she looked completely and thoroughly embarrassed. “You never give up on anything much, do you?” This time she looked up and smiled, her huge eyes glinting.

  
In spite of himself, Carver smiled smugly at the praise.

  
“Well, so long as you’re here, you might as well come in.” Her eyes darted around the Alienage. “Creator’s know that the people here are already suspicious of me enough; they don’t need to see me chatting up a Templar at my front door.”

  
Carver’s face turned hot with embarrassment as he realized the affect this could have on Merrill’s reputation within her neighborhood. But Merrill didn’t seem to mind, stepping back, holding her front door open to the Templar.

  
He walked carefully inside, as if Merrill’s little home was as fragile as she was; made of daisies and straw instead of wood and stone. But Merrill’s home felt just as cold and hard as everything in this damned city, even with her little elvhen tokens on the shelves and a fresh batch of flowers in the center of her dining room table.

  
Merrill lead him to this table gesturing for him to sit down. She placed an off white teacup in front of two of the three wobbly chairs at the table and began to pour a dark looking tea out of a steaming teapot. “I’m terribly sorry if this tastes bad. I wasn’t expecting company this evening, and, well, I just drink this cheap stuff myself…”

  
Carver paused for a second before sitting down as he noticed some unreadable yet expertly and elegantly sculpted runes painted on the floor in a rust color. This unfamiliar magic set his teeth on edge.  
Noticing his unease, Merrill smiled. “They’re just old protection runes, Dalish ones. I learned them when I was first to…” At that her voice trailed off. “But never mind them, they won’t hurt you. And either way, I doubt you came here for a lesson in magic.” At this, she looked up, her face seeming more serious, worry written in her eyes.

  
Composing himself, Carver began, “No I’m not here for that, but Merrill I want you to know I know what you’ve been doing and I need to make something very clear with you.” He tried to put on his best Templar voice. He took a sip of his tea, which was much too strong and earthy than to his liking.

  
Merrill clenched her teeth, holding her cup in front of her lips. “This is about the blood magic, isn’t it? Carver, how many times has my magic helped –“

  
“No! It’s not about the blood magic!” Carver realized that saying this while he was interrogating Merrill in her own house and dressed in his Templar garb probably looked as idiotic as it sounded. “No, it’s… Merrill, I know you’ve been stealing.”

  
Merrill’s face softened, but then she crossed her arms defensively. “What are you talking about, stealing? I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”

  
“You don’t have to lie to me Merrill,” Carver said as gently as he could. “I saw you at Seneschal Bran’s house –“

  
“Seneschal Bran’s? No wait, you can’t call that stealing!” Merrill pinched the bridge of her broad nose, sighing. “Look, Varric already talked to the City Guard, and he said I can pick all the flowers and herbs from Seneschal Bran’s garden that I want…”

  
“Listen, Merrill, it’s important that you take everything Varric says with a grain of salt and – wait, ‘pick flowers’?”

  
“Yes flowers.” Merrill saddened, slouching in her chair and staring down into her lap. “When I was with my Clan, tending to our flowers and herbs always helped me relax. And I saw Seneschal Brann’s garden and… it’s just so beautiful Carver. All these exotic plants and flowers so soft and compliant they can be made into hats and jewelry. And when I got here, to my home I mean… the first thing I noticed was that there were no gardens in the Alienage. Nothing that’s planted here lasts very long…” Merrill’s eyes began to water and she pressed the back of her hand against them as if to stop an oncoming flood.  
Carver fidgeted in his seat, not knowing what he would do if he saw the elf cry. He knew he would get chewed out by Varric for this when the dwarf would undoubtedly find out, but he had only been trying to help Merrill. He reached his hand across the table to try an comfort her, but as soon as Merrill noticed she composed herself and withdrew from Carver’s reach.  
“Look, it’s fine, it doesn’t even matter,” Merrill said in a clipped voice. “I couldn’t find the herb I needed anyway, so I didn’t ‘steal’ anything.”

  
With that, Merrill picked up her and Carver’s teacups and began to rinse them out in the washing basin, making a point not to make eye contact with Carver.  
Carver stood up immediately. He got the hint that now was the time for him to leave, but he couldn’t leave Merrill in this state.

  
“Merrill, what herb is it that you need?” He asked quietly.

  
Merrill turned away from the basin and regarded him with confusion.

  
“You know, I can request any number of rare herbs since I’m with the Templars,” he boasted, only lying a little bit. He doubted the quartermaster would let him get any herb he wanted, being so low-ranked within the Templars, but Merrill didn’t need to know that.

  
Merrill drew her mouth into a thin line and didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at Carver. Then, sighing, she said flatly, “Witherstalk. I need Witherstalk.”


	3. Chapter 3

Witherstalk? Carver had never heard of such a plant before. It must be native to somewhere out far West. However, he hardly let on that he didn’t know to Merrill. Carver smiled and nodded, assuring the elf that he would get this for her. Maybe his brother was the Champion of Kirkwall, but Carver could be Merrill’s personal champion.

Carver smiled dumbly at this thought as he walked through the Templar’s quarters towards the quartermaster. He could see Merrill now, being so delighted with him and his act of generosity, smiling up at him. Her view of him would be changed forever, and perhaps she would tell his brother—

What? No. Carver had to stop letting his brother intrude in on his daydreams, especially those that concerned Merrill.

He approached the desk of the quartermaster, a cold looking man in his late forties, who appeared to be busy with a very lengthy looking document. Carver was a tad nervous. He was, after all, a fairly new recruit, and he wasn’t the best at speaking with his superiors. However, he had to remind himself, this wasn’t about him.

“Hullo sera,” Carver said abruptly, after awkwardly shuffling his feet for a few moments. “I was wondering if I could make a request of you.”

The quartermaster clenched his fist around the quill he was using and glared up at Carver, giving a loud huff. “Okay,” he answered gruffly. “But make it quick.”

“Well, actually…” Carver rubbed the back of his neck. He was sure he could quickly tell the officer what he needed, but Carver had a sinking suspicion that this would not be a quick job. He tried to recall anytime he had seen Witherstalk – let alone heard talk of it – on the grounds, his mind turning up blank. With a deep breath and a thought of Merrill, Carver decided he just had to come out with it.

“I need Witherstalk, sera, if you would.”

The quartermaster jolted slightly, and then he looked at Carver as if truly seeing him for the first time. “Witherstalk?” he spewed, shaking his head. “A young man, like you, has no need for that herb. And besides, y-you should know all those rules about… ‘relations’ and the lot.”  
“Relations?” Carver crimsoned as his eyes scanned the room for any onlookers.   
Thankfully, the only other people besides them were two other templars repairing their armor in a far corner of the room. “Look,” he continued, whispering, “this has nothing to do with relations. It’s merely for a friend, who yes – she is a girl, but not like – “

“Look, I get it, you want all the fun with none of the responsibility. I had the same thought when I was your age.” At this he actually laughed. “But I’m not allowed to be giving any of those types of things to recruits. Aside from that, those blasted herbs are hard to come across, and cost a pretty penny when you can find them.”

‘Those types of things’? What had he meant by that? Carver wondered. Wasn’t this just some regular, medicinal herb? Carver furrowed his brows.

Holding the quill in midair again, the quartermaster took one last look at Carver and smirked. “Tell you what. If you’re so desperate for some witherstalk, why don’t you try one of those mage-goods shops down by the gallows.” He jutted his thumb, indicating somewhere vaguely behind him. “I bet one of those odd apothecaries would have some. Somehow, they are even able to get better crafting materials and herbs than we can get here.” He scowled at this, being reminded of the forms he was supposed to be filling out at present. “Well, off you go. And remember: I didn’t tell you to seek out an apothecary. Are we clear, lad?”

Carver stood for a moment, befuddled. Noticing the superior’s eyes on him, he made out a quick “Yes sera!” before leaving for the gallows.

Carver couldn’t help but think back on the quartermaster’s words. And why had he been asking him about ‘relations’? Maybe that guy was just being a perv. Yeah, that seemed like the most logical bet.

But still, something didn’t sit right with him. He trusted Merrill, and knew she was skilled enough with potions and whatnot to know her way around some herbs, but was it possible she didn’t know as much as he thought she did, or that she was having him obtain something dangerous for her? He grimaced, trying to shake the thought out of his head. He didn’t want to not trust Merrill. He knew what she was capable of; had seen her blood magic firsthand. He also thought of her as a friend, and maybe something more.

Carver stopped, leaning against a railing that led down to the courtyard. He thought Merrill had thought of him as a friend too, but what if that was just his fantasy obscuring his reality? What if the truth was he meant nothing to her, and she saw this as the perfect opportunity to schlep this possibly dangerous errand onto someone else?

No, Merrill wouldn’t do that, couldn’t do that. That girl had always shown him a kindness little others had, and though she did have some odd practices, he doubted she would bring him into them. Looking into Merrill’s warm eyes made Carver feel important, like he was the only person in the world and she was devoting her undivided attention onto him. She was special, and there was no way she would intentionally hurt him.

It was time to find out the truth about this witherstalk once and for all. He’d go to the herbalist in the gallows courtyard and, whether or not he is successful in obtaining the herb, he would march back to Merrill’s home in the Lowtown Alienage and demand answers. Okay, maybe not demand answers. That would be too harsh, and it would be unfair to treat someone as sweet as Merrill that way. No, he would press her for answers. That sounded better.

He stepped out into the gallows courtyard, shielding his eyes from the oppressive midday sun. He scanned the right side of the courtyard, where magically inclined merchants set up hastily constructed shops. It was tricky to find the herbalist among the array of shops showcasing their mysterious robes, oddly colored potions, intricate trinkets, and “walking sticks”. Yes, he knew all about the staffs being disguised as walking sticks. He had spent years traveling with his apostate brother, after all.

At last he saw what looked to be an herbalist amongst the other ramshackle shops, noting the odd looking dried plants that hung from the merchant’s counter. He made his way over to the stall, and, peering into the large barrels in front, was delighted to see that most of the plants at this shop were completely foreign to him. He smiled to himself. He shuddered at a barrel full of bristly things that looked like a deer’s antler, labeled ‘Felandaris’. This must be the place for witherstalk, then.

The merchant was taken aback by a Templar approaching his counter, but after noticing Carver was just browsing his wares with a confused look on his face, he relaxed a little, choosing to merely eye him with suspicion. Carver, on the other hand, was beginning to get nervous. He searched all the visible barrels and couldn’t find any plant called witherstalk.

“E-excuse me,” he asked the herbalist sheepishly. “Do you happen to have any witherstalk on you?”

The shopkeeper looked him up and down with a small smile, then turned around and began to rummage through some old-looking cases. Carver peered over the shop’s counter to try to get a look at what he was doing, but in no time the man returned with a thin rectangular box. Setting it down on the counter, the herbalist slid the lid off to reveal several shoots of what appeared to be little more than a weed the color of dried grass. “Here you are, sera.”

Carver eyed the boxes contents suspiciously. There didn’t seem to be anything special about this plant. Nevertheless, he sighed and began to pull out his purse. “Alright. How much for one?”

The man took one of the witherstalk and held it in his hand, taking a swipe at the base of the stem with his finger, then pulling it away to reveal a sticky sap that now covered his finger. “These are fresh. I’d say… 40 silvers a piece.”

“40 silvers a piece?” Carver blanched. “You know what, that’s fine. Just the one then, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Are you sure you just need one?” The herbalist mused, whipping his finger on his robe. “Most people who can afford it buy at least five. And you are a young man, after all.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Carver retorted stubbornly. “Thanks.” He counted out the forty silver pieces and laid them down on the counter. The man wrapped the stem of the plant in some tattered lamb’s wool. He began to hand it to Carver, then paused just as Carver was about to take it from him.

“Wait a minute,” the herbalist said as if just remembering something. “Look, I know it’s embarrassing to talk about, but I’ve got to tell you how to use this before you go off and do something stupid.”

Carver knew Merrill must know how to use this, but for his own curiosity’s sake he decided to listen to the herbalist.

“It’s very important to know that the sap only acts as a contraceptive agent if it is fresh, and that’s why you should use this witherstalk within the next week or so –“

“Wait a minute, what’s the ‘contraperceptive agent’ you’re talking about? Does it help with your perception?”

The herbalist rolled his eyes. “No,” he said bluntly. “Not contraperceptive: contraceptive. It’s what – look, to make it simple for you, it’s what stops someone from getting pregnant. That’s why I’m telling you to use this within the next few weeks, or else it will not work and you could end up in a loveless marriage with a set of twins you were unprepared for, and – Look, just go. You can mix the sap with a tea or apply it topically. Just… hold onto your youth…” The man crumpled into the chair at the stand and stared off towards the sea.

Carver, meanwhile, stood with his mouth agape, overwhelmed by a strange emotion coursing through him, making him shake. He couldn’t quite discern this emotion; was it anger or anxiety? Or was it that all too familiar feeling: jealousy?

Cole! His brother! Carver shook with rage as he tore away from the herbalist’s stall and marched across the gallows. He seemed to be the most logical explanation as to why Merrill would need a contraceptive. ‘Your brother’s gay!’ a small part of his brain reminded him, but Carver knew better than to let him off the hook because of that. It was always his brother behind these types of things anyway, always his fault.

He could picture it now, Merrill lying naked on his brother’s massive bed in Hightown, pink-dusted pale skin against white satin sheets, embarrassment and shame written across her face but a lustful spark hidden in her hooded dark eyes. Why did his brother need that damn bed for himself anyway, and why did it keep showing up in Carver’s fantasies?

Shoving the witherstalk into his satchel, Carver decided he would have to confront his brother; if for nothing else than to at least get some questions answered.


End file.
